15 YEARS YO

I have a cold or allergies or something sniffly enough that made me, last night, decide to blow off this day. I told him then: it's a Thursday, there's soccer, my throat hurts and let's wait to have big fun. He said OK and also "15 years?" and I said, while rolling over into tissues and my pillow: that's a fucking long time.

Last year: it was different. He was a majahplayah and I was alone a lot.

Now? He's with me all the time. All.the.time. 

And yet: I am not sick of him. I am not done with him. He laughs at my jokes, and despite his politics, I love what he says. He is still the most interesting, most annoying, most compelling part of every day I have. 

Someone once told me she felt butterflies when her boyfriend walked into the room. I was three years married and I worried: why don't I feel butterflies?

It takes fifteen years to realize butterflies fade and die. It takes fifteen years to hear crickets and coyotes out your door -- and beat both back. It takes fifteen years to know that butterflies come from shitty caterpillars and that one day, the fluttering pretty thing you cling onto, that you cling onto, will not become the thing that is lasting.

What lasts? his laughter, his strong thighs, your obstinacy, his sweaty sweet neck, your will. What lasts is one night on a couch not speaking, or a night in the dark figuring it out. What lasts is not some butterfly flutter, not a fancy gift but this: some easy cocoon, the life we made for each other.

Kid, I love you and for every way I have turned you out and embarrassed you in these pages, this is for you:

DUDE? Truce?